Corrupt? You Say It Like It's a Bad Thing
by poisoned-.-rationality
Summary: Clary was in Witness Protection. She trusted him, just like she trusted Blackwell..."Go home, Clary. Don't testify. You can pretend this whole thing didn't happen."... And she ran. She found someone she hadn't seen since The incident..."Covered my mouth before I had the chance to scream."... She should be glad, she's safe now... right? What is this about her Father and the Circle?
1. They Protect and They Serve, Right?

**Hey guys! It's me again... Yes I know I haven't updated my other story (A Midnight Visit... Uh-oh). I'm waiting till the contest is over. I know "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Excuses, excuses", just bear with me okay... I only realized this now, but a section in this chapter is similar to a scene in the book (just with different characters). This is an AU story (alternate universe), so that means... some of the characters are going to be OOC (out of character). Yeah I know, big shocker right?**

**Oh almost forgot:**

**Rated T for: violence (and detailed descriptions of), language, and... I'll let you know if anything else applies to any later chapters, but no lemons... just no.**

**Disclaimer: Our names start with the letter "c" and we're both of the female gender but the similarities end there... so sadly I cannot pose as her and say I own the Mortal Instruments... because I don't... not that I would ever do that *nervous chuckle*... But I do own this plot. So... on with the story!**

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**Clary PoV**

_Tick, tock. Tick, tock._

It was so quiet, the only thing you could hear was the clock nailed next to the book case, counting off the seconds that passed. Hodge had called me that evening— I was mixing paints for the sunset I had finished sketching. He sounded frazzled— he usually hid it so well, too, well in fact— but this time was different. He said that it was about the case and it was urgent. When I asked him what it was about, he paused. I had almost thought the call got disconnected when he said that he would be there before midnight. Before I could ask why he was being so vague, he hung up. And sure enough, there was someone pounding on my door six minutes to midnight.

_Tick, tock. Tick, tock._

The walls were so bare. No photos to distract you from the sloppy beige plastering, no paintings, no decorations, nothing. Hodge explained to me that it was protocol: the only things I could keep had to be physically attached to me. Somehow, though, I managed to sneak in one photo. I slipped it into my bra when no one was looking. In it, Simon and I were standing side by side on the lawn with our white, two-story house in the background, and Jonathan had tackled us from behind. We both had looks of shock on etched onto our faces as we toppled over. Jonathan, still in his lacrosse uniform, had his arms around the both of us, and an impish smile on his face. If you looked close enough, you could see my parents in the top right corner watching us from the patio steps, amused at our antics.

_Tick, tock. Tick, tock._

I don't remember how long the pregnant silence lasted— me sitting on the couch, legs crossed, my back stiff as a board, staring intently at Hodge while he stood by my sketching desk leafing through my portfolio. Hodge, although very tall, was a skinny man. You wouldn't expect him be out in the field working such a high profile case, with his silver spectacles and his nervous habits that always surfaced when his superiors were around.

_Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick—_

"Why are you here?" I blurted out, my curiosity getting the best of me.

"What?" Hodge asked, looking up from the manila folder.

"I mean, why did you come here today?" I clarified. "You said that you had something important to talk about."

Hodge was skimming through my paintings again, the stiff paper crinkling as he flicked them back. My fingers twitched, and I bit my bottom lip. It always unnerved me to see people picking through my artwork so carelessly. Hours of tedious, finger-cramping work ruined by smudged colors and wrinkled paper within five minutes of browsing. "You're exceptionally talented, Clary." He commented, not acknowledging my previous inquiries. "Once this case is closed, you should really consider becoming a professional."

I got up from my seat, and walk over to the desk. Seeing the green and blue flakes of paint on the table top made me wince. "Hodge," I said forcefully, "What is so important that you had to wait till midnight to come to my apartment to tell me. Is there a new lead? Did you find him?"_ And can I go home?_

I already knew the answer the last one. Even they had found him, that manipulative bastard had allies everywhere ready to strike down his enemies to keep the money flowing. It would be months anything would change, Agent Penhallow had warned me. But she was long gone.

"No, there aren't any new leads." He stated, still not looking me in the eye.

"What did you want to talk about, then?"

Hodge looked up from the portfolio, he looked almost guilty. "Go home."

"What?" I asked, confused. What did Hodge have weighing on his conscience?

He ran a hand through his greying hair. It stuck up awkwardly, the gel trying to hold it in place. Then, Hodge sighed. "Go home, Clary. Don't testify. You can pretend this whole thing didn't happen. We don't need you anymore."

I felt my face heat up. My fingernails were digging into the edge of the desk, leaving crescent shaped teeth marks into the wood that I hadn't noticed at the time. Anger built up inside me, the kind that built up at the bottom of your stomach, and crawling its way up your spine, just making you want to scream. And that's exactly what I did.

"You don't need me anymore?!" I exclaimed incredulously. "Last time I checked, I was your only witness willing to even go near the stand!" I pointed to myself, my eyes wide.

"I don't want you to get hurt," Hodge admitted. "Please, just go before I have to do something I'll regret." His dull blue eyes stared into mine, pleading me not to prod any further. He had that gleam in his eye, the kind that sends chill down a person's spine. It was the one Blackwell had when he shot Madison, his stammering assistant, because he thought she reported him, and when he pressed its warm muzzle to my skull.

"No," I whispered. Hodge was the sympathetic FBI agent who was monitoring me while I was in Witness Protection. He came to my aid after Agent Penhallow abandoned my case. I trusted him with my life, up until now.

"Clary," Hodge whispered, stepping closer. He sounded so sincere, I wanted to believe him, I wish I did.

My eyes darted around frantically. I stood in the way of the cause, he wouldn't hesitate. He would kill me right then and there. Hodge was closer to the front door than I was. The window? No I live on the third floor; I might as well just stab myself in the heart while I'm at it. The fire escape? That dilapidated strip of metal was rusted to the core. My upstairs neighbor decided to take a smoke outside one day and she landed in the building's dumpster.

Hodge was only a foot or two away. He reached out an arm, beckoning me to come closer while the other hovered above his gun holster, prepared to whip out the black piece if necessary. Considering that I wasn't in the mood to fall to my death today, the front door was my best bet. I bolted across the room, causing Hodge to stumble a bit. He was too surprised to react. By the time he recovered from the daze, I was already out the door. It slammed into the wall with a bang, but I kept going. I ran as if wolves were chasing me down the dark hallway, stumbling over folds in the carpet crashing into corners. The super didn't bother to keep the lights on at night. That cheapskate figured that most people would be asleep by now and felt no need to pay extra. Even so, the light bulbs flickered with the little juice they had left.

I dashed onto the staircase, taking two steps at a time. Fast, heavy footsteps echoed through the wasn't that far behind, probably only a flight above. I could hear him calling out my name, telling me that he only wanted to talk. The door was so close, seeing its chipped wood and fading color had never given me such relief as it did now.

I scrambled out of the rickety apartment complex, not noticing the garbage can in the middle of the sidewalk. One second I was running, the next I had gone tumbling over the metal can. I quickly picked myself up, nearly tripping a second time. My hands and knees were numb from shock, but my heart was beating wildly in my chest, the adrenaline couldn't mask that. I could make out at least three shadows, maybe a fourth. My heart dropped; of course he brought back-up. Any sensible person with half a brain would.

I narrowly dodged the parking meter, and turned right, past the concrete wall sprayed with colorful graffiti and even more colorful words. The phrase "DEATH TO THE SNITCHES" in all caps covered a good portion of the wall. Its color had faded over time, but the message was still clear, an undeniable truth. You talk you die. No exceptions. Whoever wrote it probably used real blood, too. If I hadn't been so out of breath at the time, I might have even laughed. The irony was uncanny, that those four words would be one of the the last things I would see.

Skyscrapers towered above, casting pitch black shadows where the street lamps' yellow-white shine couldn't reach. The road was empty, not a single car running, nor a lonely soul wandering the streets. Even the hobo who smoked pot in the alley between Hal's Ice Cream Parlor and "FANG-tabulous: Costumes and More" was gone. There were several hotels and apartment buildings, but all their lights were off. I could see their cars in the adjacent lot, it was so full people had to park on the street in front. I— should I saw we— were in the ghetto of the city. The residents knew not to get involve, or else their new neighbors would be the other snitches floating alongside them in the Hudson.

The shadows behind me were gradually getting closer. My arms and legs burned more intensely with each stride. Would it be so horrible if I let them catch me? Our families had been friends for years, since college when they came up with the idea to start B&M Pharmaceuticals. Blackwell wouldn't kill his best friend's daughter, would he?

Suddenly, I was yanked off the sidewalk. I remember feeling a sharp pain in my wrist and hearing my shoulder socket pop. Then I crashed into something hard, knocking the air out of my lungs. A large, calloused hand covered my mouth before I had the chance to scream.

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**Can you guess who it is? I'll give you a hint: He/she either plays a sport or some type of instrument (the calloused hands).**

**Please review (and maybe follow or favorite, but especially review). Do you like it, hate it, want to make a suggestion... Just tell me what you think, no sugar coating. And yes, I do accept flames.**

**Side note: A beta would be VERY helpful. So, if anyone wants to beta this story, just P.M. me. ****M'kay, thanks for reading... Bye! (Remember: REVIEW)**

-** poisoned-.-rationality **


	2. Home: Down the Alley and to the Left

**Chapter 2: Home is Down the Creepy Alley and to the Left**

**Hey guys! I forgot to mention this before but this will be a CLACE FIC... eventually. Anyways before I forget...**

**Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, followed, all that shiz...**

**AND SPECIAL THANKS to my beta divergentdinosaur, go check out her story "I Still Love You", it's a TMI story...**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the TMI series, that belongs to Cassandra Clare but I do own the plot... and Bounè (It's pronounced bow-nay, you'll see who he is)**

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_Recap:_

_Suddenly, I was yanked off the sidewalk. I remember feeling a sharp pain in my wrist and hearing my shoulder socket pop. Then I crashed into something hard, knocking the air out of my lungs. A large, calloused hand covered my mouth before I had the chance to scream._

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**Clary PoV**

I thrashed around, anything was better than this. Father warned me about the predators that lurked in the endless shadows. That's why he never let me out at night alone; I was always accompanied by Jon or Simon, kept inside if he could help it. Blackwell was a predator, one that hid behind superficial smiles and an ocean-calm exterior during the day. At night, when his colleagues weren't around, he let his true self show. I remember the way Blackwell treated Madison and her baby sister, Maggie, when Father wasn't there to call him out.

My arms are trapped in his iron grip, immobile at either side, but my legs were free. I smashed my foot down on the toe of his dense, black sneaker. He grunted, and his arm tightened around my waist. I was hyperventilating at this point, my lungs burned from exertion._ I have to escape. I have to get away. I won't let him—_

"Clary, stop struggling. They're going to hear you."

Clank, clank, clank, clank, clank. You could hear them from a mile away, their rapid footsteps resounding off the resolute pavement. Reluctantly, I obliged. _Who knows what Blackwell would do when he found us?_ The mere thought of the possibilities sent chills down my spine.

Three people come into view— one exceptionally tall, another bulky, and the last. They were like ghosts, only their outline discernible from the dark urban landscape. Like the paranormal kind, seeing them left a feeling of dread festering at the pit of my stomach. Judging by height and stature, I was certain that the first man was Hodge. The other two, however, were complete strangers to me.

"Do you see her?" Bulky guy boomed from the middle of the street.

Hodge walks past the opening, his glasses gleaming. "Blackwell will not be pleased if we return empty-handed." He warns apprehensively, head held high. "I'll cover 31st street. Wayland and Boune`, you keep searching here."

Unfortunately, the man trailing after him was not as oblivious as his employer. He approaches the slim crevice hesitantly, squinting into the darkness. The soles of his shoes make almost no sound as they hit the pavement, feather-light on the rough cement. He halts in front of the adjacent brick walls, standing at the edge of the lamppost's dim shine.

The person behind me seemed for the most part calm — his breathing was even as the war air hit the top of my scalp, his heart wasn't beating fast against my back. Perhaps he just had experience hiding it. Like Blackwell. _Am I imagining things, or was the grip around me tightening?_ My fingers were tingling, the numbness reaching up to my forearms where the stranger's arm was. I wouldn't be surprised if my skin was turning a bit purple.

I was shivering, the icy cold evening chill prickled my skin, but that wasn't the only reason I had goose bumps. The shadows masked his features, but I could feel his gaze on me. He knows we're here.

"Wayland, did you find something?"

He took a step closer, his light blond hair tinted a shade darker by the shadows. I was only an arm length away. I wanted to look away, so I didn't have to see the look on his face when he grabbed me, but I couldn't. It was like watching a horror movie, you know what's going to happen, and you still can't keep your eyes off the screen. Except I was this time, I was the girl who was going to be dragged away, never to be seen again.

He kicked a discarded beer bottle deeper into the alley. I flinched when I heard the metallic clang, my eyes still closed even as it settled with a final faint clink. "There's nothing here." He said, walking away. Come on, Bonnie. We have red headed bitch to find."

"It's _Bow-nay_, Wayland. _Bow-nay_" He corrected, their footsteps retreating onto the distance.

I cracked an eye open, checking if the trio had left. No one. Just the generic dry cleaners sitting across the street. I sighed in relief, they're gone. He relaxed his grip, letting his arms fall away. The blood rushed back into the dormant muscles with a rush of heat. I flexed my fingers in and out to dull the stinging. _We were safe, for now at least. Me and—_

The man who pulled me into the alley. Any danger to his well-being had left along with Blackwell's henchmen. He could do as he pleased, and no one would stop him.

My eyes widened with realization. He knew my name. I hadn't noticed it at the time. He said, "_Clary_, stop struggling".

Something caught the corner of my eye. On the ground, the dark beer bottle lay on its side next to rusty green dumpster. I inched towards it, stretching my hand out. A hit to the head would at least daze him long enough for me to get a considerable head start. My fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle, the glass cold on my skin. I quickly straightened up. It felt light in my palm. Would it cause enough damage?

"Clary?"

I carefully switched the bottle to my right hand. I let out a shaky breath. _Use the element of surprise._

I spun around, and whipped my hand out with as much force as I could muster. He caught my arm mid-swing with a loud smack. It wasn't exactly painful, my hadn't regained full feeling yet. A buzz of panic shot up my spine, my fingers jerked open reflexively, and the bottle slipped. I watched as it crashed into ground, sending razor sharp, jagged fragments of glass flying everywhere.

I saw the ring on his little finger before I noticed his face. It was pure silver, its luster dulled with age. The ornate engraved design hadn't lost its beauty since the last time I saw it. Two wood-like, metal strands twined together to form a band about a finger's width thick. What startled me was the calligraphy M embossed in the center over a faint star of Bethlehem, surrounded by several smaller five pointed ones. The Morgenstern crest.

Father had given me the ring as a present for my 13th birthday. Before I boarded the plane for Manhattan, I asked Jon to keep the ring safe. Clary Fray lived in South Harlem, somewhere Clarissa Morgenstern, the sheltered trust fund girl, would've never even thought of visiting. People in the slums didn't own thousand dollar accessories. Not if they wanted to pay that year's rent.

The petite ring looked silly on his football player sized hands. It barely fit then, and barely fit now.

"Clary," he said. "It's just me."

I can't believe I didn't recognize him earlier. It's only been three months, and I've forgotten my brother's voice.

He hasn't change, not by much. The same stark-white hair— maybe a shade darker, it was hard to tell in this light. Still a whole head taller. Did he grow a couple inches? The same dark brown, almost black eyes that our father had.

Shocked, I whispered, "Jon?" He nodded, giving me a weak smile. I shook off his hand, and pulled him into a hug.

"I missed you." I pressed my face into warm chest, savoring the moment. It's been a while since I've had anything familiar.

"I missed you to, sis." It was comforting, him rubbing his hand up and down my back. I could stay in his warm embrace forever, protected from the evils lurking everywhere it seems. If I didn't breathe through my nose. That boy smelled worse than a soaked Labrador wandering through the Sahara Desert. "Jon," I repeated, craning my neck to look him in the eye.

"Yes?" He replied.

"You smell like wet dog."

He chuckled, "Yeah. That's what happens when you don't shower for a month."

_What?_ My eyebrows scrunched up in confusion. Mom made him shower every day, no exceptions, even when he broke his leg at lacrosse practice. When the doctors released him from the hospital, she made him jump in the tub with his cast on. We had to go back the next day to get the water drained. "You haven't been home in a month?"

He didn't answer, opting to admire the glittering glass shards. _I guess that's a yes. _"What the hell, Jon!" I whisper-shouted, shrugging his arms off. "What about our parents? They're not blind! I think they'd notice if they came home to an empty house 30 days in a freaking row!"

"Well, they aren't going to be home to notice!" Jon exclaimed, his voice bouncing off the brick walls. His eyes widened, his eyes darted to the street. When he was satisfied with what he saw, or rather who he didn't see, he let out a lengthy sigh.

He pressed his lips into a thin line, and looked back down at me. "They're out of the country," He said in a near whisper. "Mom's in France showcasing her new City of Glass collection at the Louvre and Dad is in Sweden for a pharmaceutical convention. You know how long their business trips can last." His voice lowered to a disdainful mumble, more to himself than I. "Even after their children's near death experiences."

I bit my lip. Sometimes, I forget that Jon was being targeted, too. If he was scared or intimidated by their vicious attacks, he never showed it.

On the last day of school, Jon had come home from college to pick me up. We were walking to the car, laughing and joking around in public for the first time since the incident. It was one of those days where you felt like you were on top of the world, and nothing could drag you back down to Earth. I don't know exactly why we were so happy. Maybe it was because summer had finally arrived, that we hadn't seen Blackwell or any of his cronies in weeks, or because the principle had called Regina Condone "Vagina Condom" for her Valedictorian speech. It was probably the last one.

When we found his Camaro in the parking lot, it was trashed. The whole windshield was bashed in, the tires were popped, the passenger door was missing, and the shiny leather seats were torn to shreds. Its new car smell was replaced by a rotting carcass stink. Sprayed on its crimson red paint in big black letters was the word "Snitch".

Stunned, I walked up to the driver's side, the dented door was left open. On the dashboard, there was a wrinkle photo of Jon and I pinned to it with black handled switch blade. There was a gun scope aimed for my face.

I didn't even notice Jon sneak up behind me. In a millisecond, the photo was ripped from the dashboard. I turned; Jon had the photo in his hands, holding it close to his face, inspecting every minute detail. His nostrils flared with anger, eyebrows arched. I could hear him cursing under his breath. Just as quickly as the emotions came, they disappeared. His face completely stoic, he crumpled the photo and tucked it in his pocket.

We hitched a ride from Jon's friend Sebastian, one of his lacrosse teammates who lived in the area. He and Sebastian were goofing around, as if nothing happened. In Sebastian's perspective, nothing did happen; he was helping a friend whose brand new car broke down.

I don't think Sebastian or any of Jon's friends knew about Blackwell. He avoided any topics that involved our parents unless it was absolutely necessary, especially since the incident. I understand. I wouldn't want any of my classmates to think of me as a moving target. I only told Simon because I had known him before I could walk, and I was sure he would never abandon me.

"Clary?" Jon asked, snapping his fingers inches from my face.

"Huh?" I said. "Oh." Right, Mom and Dad are out of the country. "So where have you been staying for the past month?" I paused. "And how did you know I was in New York?" I never told him. I never told Mom, Dad, Jon, or Simon where I was going. For all they knew I could have been in Chile hiding in a tiny bungalow.

Jon opened his mouth as if to reply, ready to explain this whole fiasco, but he couldn't find the right words. Instead he said, "Let's talk somewhere else. Blackwell's men could come back."

I bit my tongue and nodded. I needed answers. The quicker, the better. Jon took me by that hand, and led me deeper into the alley. Skeptically, I asked. "Where exactly are we going?"

He smiled, "Don't worry, it's not that far. It's down this alley and to the left."

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**Please Review, I love knowing what you guys think, concerns, comments (on my terrible French last name spelling? Did I spell Bounè right?,) even if it's terrible. Okay, maybe I don't LOVE flames, I don't think anyone does, but I'll take it if its your opinion... oh and fav/follow... Thanks for reading! **

– **poisoned-.-rationality**


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